Survivor
by the ramblin rose
Summary: Caryl AU. Oneshot. She was going to do this on her own terms. She was going to keep control of her situation. She was going to keep control of her life. Even if, after everything, she did let him help.


**AN: Here we go. This one was difficult. It was the Tumblr request for Carol/Daryl and one of them being diagnosed with a terminal illness.**

 **Trigger warning for the big "C" and for discussion about that.**

 **I own nothing from the show.**

 **I hope you enjoy. Let me know what you think!**

111111111111111111111111111111111111111111111

Carol stood in the bathroom and wiped the steamy mirror with the damp towel that she'd just unwrapped from her body. It steamed over again, immediately, and she wiped it once more but accepted that there would be at least a little steam left behind. It wouldn't be clear. Not entirely. It didn't matter anyway.

She sighed at what she could see of her reflection through the clouded glass and bent down to fumble through the cabinet, mumbling to herself that it needed to be cleaned out. It needed to be emptied. Things needed to be organized. Better organized. Rearranged and redone. She'd been meaning to clean that cabinet out for at least three years, but she just hadn't gotten around to it yet.

She'd get around to it soon. Soon, but not right now. Right now? She couldn't think to do it.

She hadn't washed her hair. It would be a waste of time at this point. After finding the electric clippers in the cabinet, the ones that she'd been looking for and had last used to trim Daryl's hair last week, she stood and examined her reflection again. It was clearer now as the steam was lessening in the space. She ran her fingers through it, stretched the curls out to their full length—not very impressive, but there was some length to it—and then she scratched her scalp. It was something of a farewell to hair instead of a farewell to arms.

Maybe it was premature, but she'd worked up the courage to do it and she had to go through with it before she lost that courage. Because as soon as it faded? There were going to be tears, and she didn't want to do it then—not with the tears. It was better to do it now. This? Doing it in this moment? It was doing it on her own terms.

That was how this whole thing was going to go. One way or another? She was going to keep control of things. She was going to do things on her own terms.

She sucked in a breath, held it, and switched on the electric shears. She'd kept her hair short once, very short, but for a very different reason. She had kept it short because her first husband had demanded it. He'd declared that he didn't like men looking at her. He told her that having her hair short, really short, made her face all the more _visible_ to men—and that would deter them. They wouldn't be able to stand to look at her and he wouldn't have to worry about her tricking someone into doing anything with her that would make her less his—less his possession.

She closed her eyes.

Daryl had never said those kinds of things about her. He'd never expressed, honestly, more of a like for her hair longer than when it had been shorter. The only thing he'd ever said was that he liked her curls. He liked twisting them in his fingers. He liked how soft her hair was. But he never actually said he didn't like it short. And he'd never once told her that she was ugly and that having her face so _visible_ —not at all softened by the curls—would make her hideous to everyone who accidentally laid eyes on her.

And this wasn't about that. This was about her. It was about keeping control. It was about feeling like, even if it wasn't true, she made decisions.

She opened her eyes, set her resolve once more, and brought the clippers up. The first swipe was right down the middle so she couldn't back out. It couldn't be fixed. She stopped, changed the guard to make it shorter, and swiped again. Once she was going, she kept going. She didn't stop until she switched the clippers off for good, put them on the counter because she couldn't bring herself to put them under the cabinet and look at the undone organizational project again, and wiped the counter clean with a rag to push all her discarded curls to the floor.

She ran a hand around her head, feeling to make sure she'd missed nothing. It wasn't a clean shave—she'd wait for that—but it was almost all gone. She was older now than the last time she looked at herself with that style, and she was more tired, but she didn't feel as hideous as she had back then.

Maybe Daryl had something to do with that. Maybe she did.

She went, slipped into her robe, and got a broom. She cleaned up the hair, threw the whole mess in the trash can, and then she went to her closet to select something to wear—something comfortable, soft, but still nice. Something that would make her feel delicate.

Soft silk pants and a nice, flowing top.

She dressed and slipped into the flats that she loved wearing around. They always made her feel oddly feminine. She felt "girly" in every sense of the word when she slipped into the shoes. She wanted that right now. She needed it.

She refused to cower away from her reflection, so she returned to the bathroom and dabbed on a little colored gloss. She spritzed herself with her favorite perfume. She put on deodorant and she brushed a little blush across her cheek bones.

She didn't look sick. She looked tired. She looked like she needed to rest, but she didn't look sick. She certainly didn't look like she was dying.

She wasn't going to die. She'd already made her mind up about it.

Sure, in time she would die, but it wouldn't be now. She wasn't leaving her life as it was now. She wasn't done with it and it wasn't fair to ask her to leave it. Her daughter was twenty two. She was seeing a young man that she cared for deeply and she was mentioning marriage. Carol wasn't going to die because she would need to help plan the wedding. And if Sophia should have children?

Carol couldn't die because her grandchildren would need a grandmother to bounce them on her knee and give them treats their parents said they couldn't have.

She wasn't going to die because she didn't want to. Not now. Not this way.

She was married, after a marriage that had nearly killed her, to a man that loved her like she was made of precious stones and metals. She was married to a man that she loved more than words would allow her to express.

He worshipped her body—a body that wasn't well right now, but one day would be—and she wasn't done making love to him. As foolish as it might sound? She wasn't done with it. She wasn't ready to admit that was over. It wasn't over. There were things they talked about doing that they simply hadn't done yet. And though she might not have the ability or the energy to do them for a while? She would do them one day. They would be what they'd always planned to be—the old couple that never lost their flame for each other.

She couldn't die because there were places that she had to go. There were so many places that she'd never been. After they retired? Not too many years from now? They were going to buy a motor home. They were going to travel around and collect obnoxious trinkets from places that were silly and stupid and not worthy of any tourist destination beyond their own.

They were going to simply drive around, together, whenever they pleased and then they were going to "vacation" in their home and have their grandchildren over to visit.

Carol couldn't leave Daryl to do that on his own because he'd never do it if she wasn't there to go with him. He'd make plans all day long, but he'd never go through with any of them. She was the one that pushed him to do things. She had to stay to make sure that the trips were made.

She had to stay because, otherwise, nobody might take the time to decorate for Christmas—even though they loved the decorations. Nobody would remember to do the little things like clean the dryer lint trap. Nobody would ever organize that bathroom cabinet and Daryl would never find a thing again.

She didn't care how stupid her reasons for holding on might sound to someone else—someone who had really great and important things to hold onto, because certainly there were more important people in the world than Carol Dixon—because they were her reasons.

Her reasons for surviving had gotten her through everything in life so far, and they wouldn't fail her now. She wouldn't let them.

She wasn't ready to go, and she wouldn't be forced into it. The doctors could recite all the depressing statistics to her that they wanted. They could give her concerned faces with furrowed brows and tightly drawn lips. They could doubt what she said because of their belief in science, but Carol had a belief in something better.

Now?

Carol believed in herself. And she wasn't going anywhere.

Carol stayed in the bathroom until she heard the back door close, the thud echoing through the house because her husband had never learned to gently close a door. It didn't matter, though. He was gentle where it counted, and that's all that really mattered.

She sucked in another calming breath, forced herself to set her resolve once more, and she put on the best smile she could. She made her way through the house, met him as he was coming looking for her, and immediately put her hands on his shoulders and offered herself for a kiss. He leaned and accepted it, as he always did, but when he pulled away she saw the concern on his face.

All the question he had to ask was there.

She forced the smile, swallowed against the lump in her throat, and shook her head gently.

"It's—still there," she said. "The surgery didn't...and—it's spread, just a little."

His features twisted.

"How—how much?" He asked.

Carol shook her head again, sucking in two of the deepest breaths she could in rapid succession. She wasn't going to lose this battle either.

"Just a little," she said. "Just—enough. We're going to do the chemo. I've already decided, we're going to do the chemo and—maybe another surgery? But it's OK."

He stood there, staring at her, features slightly twisted, and she didn't press him to respond immediately. She'd taken her time. He needed his. And, more than likely, he'd need more. He'd have to go for a walk. He'd go out to his shop and work on some project. He'd hammer out his frustration, perhaps, on the chest of drawers he was redoing for Sophia's apartment.

"It's OK?" He asked, his voice barely indicating it was a question.

Carol renewed her smile and rubbed her hands down his arms.

"It will be," she said. "It'll be OK. This? I can do this, right?"

She hated the expression that came across his face then. She hated the way that his chest began to heave. She knew that he'd been dreading these words. His dread for them was different than hers had been for the news that the doctor had given her, but all dread, deep down, was the same.

She shook her head again.

"You don't have to say anything," she said. She raised her eyebrows at him and sighed. "I cut my hair," she said. "Did you notice?" She smiled once more.

He was visibly calming a little. His breathing was slowing once more, at least a little. He swallowed, and it sounded like it was hard going down, but he nodded.

"Well?" Carol asked. "Do you like it?"

She did a little turn, showing him all sides of herself, buying herself a moment not to look at his face. When she turned back, he was wearing the best hint of a smile that he could—the corner of his lips barely turning up.

"Always pretty," he said.

Carol nodded, satisfied with that. He wouldn't lie to her. And it didn't matter if a single other soul thought she was pretty. It didn't matter at all.

"It's OK?" He asked again, this time sounding more like a question.

"It will be," Carol said.

"But they ain't said it would be?" Daryl asked.

"They didn't say it would and they didn't say it wouldn't," Carol said. "They can't say either way. Medical mumbo jumbo and all."

"Then how you know?" Daryl asked.

Carol sighed, prepared for at least a little questioning about her confidence in the matter.

"Because I know me," she said. "And I know—I'm not ready to go. I'm not—I'm just not ready to go. So—I'm not."

Daryl nodded.

"When do you go?" He asked.

Carol raised her eyebrows.

"We've got to move quickly," she said. "So—I start the chemo tomorrow. Then? We'll see from there."

"I'll drive you," Daryl said. "Sit with you."

"I'd like that," Carol responded. "You sure you're going to be OK?"

Daryl actually laughed quietly at that and it was contagious because Carol caught it and laughed too. She laughed louder than he did and she felt the appreciation washing over her for a moment of relief from the heaviness of the moment.

Daryl caught her under the chin and kissed her again, both of them still smiling, and they both pulled out if it with broader and more sincere smiles than those with which they'd gone into the kiss.

"You just worry about you," Daryl said. "And—I'll do the same."

Carol shook her head, her smiled not gone yet either.

"No," she said. "No worries. I've got this. I survive, remember? We survive. That's what we do."

Daryl nodded his head.

"We do," he said. "And you do. I'm countin' on it."


End file.
